


Parole

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Seine, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29690586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Marius does not live in the Rue Plumet, but that does not mean his face is entirely unknown there.
Relationships: Javert/Marius Pontmercy/Jean Valjean
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	Parole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenityabrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityabrin/gifts).



> Note: this is an AU where 1) Javert is persuaded to let Valjean leave with Cosette (somewhat against his better judgement!), and 2) both Marius and Valjean are injured at the barricade and Javert takes it upon himself to save them. 
> 
> The story borrows some details of addresses, etc. from the book but is firmly set in the universe of the musical - specifically the 25th anniversary concert.

Marius does not live in the Rue Plumet, but that does not mean his face is entirely unknown there. 

The house is still legally owned in the name of Ultime Fauchelevent, a designation that Valjean supposes he will never be able to abandon completely; saying his true name out loud within certain people's hearing would see him back in chains before sundown and the wonder of it is that no one who frequents the house these days would wish him to that fate. Cosette loves him as she always has, of course, but Marius should have no reason to. Even less Javert, he thinks. 

Marius lives with his grandfather in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Valjean has visited him there only once, during his lengthy convalescence, and never again if simply because he can't find it in himself to call it either fitting or appropriate. Marius should be married, were there any sense in the world at all, but Valjean has long since ceased his search for that. The truth is: Marius has not married, and he professes that he will not with all the vehemence of a man who might once had given up his life there at a barricade, and so he visits the house in the Rue Plumet.

He's there tonight. He entered through the padlocked garden gate under cover of night, locked it tight behind him, and Valjean watched him make his way through the wild of the garden in the dim light that spills from the window of his room. Marius knows his way in the dark, across the worn old paving stones overgrown with moss and lichen except for the places where his feet so frequently fall. He knows his way to Valjean's door and has the key to it inside his coat pocket, which is now hanging from the hatstand beside Valjean's, and beside Javert's. 

There are two rooms in the small lodge where Valjean lives: one lies beside the other, leading from the small vestibule behind the courtyard door. Across the vestibule is Javert's room, of dimensions almost precisely the same as Valjean's, and also similar in its decoration. They each of them live in a kind of sharp austerity, in contrast to the ease of Cosette's life in her pavilion, with the only luxury being that they each possess a bed that is more than ample for two. Tonight, Valjean's bed is occupied by more than two and so the size of it seems very nearly justified. 

In the low but steady lamplight, as he lies bare-skinned on Valjean's bed, the scar at Marius' collarbone is clear. In the lamplight, Valjean's own scar there at his thigh is just as evident, amongst all of his others. He presses his lips to Marius' scar; Javert's fingertips brush his. He shivers; Marius gasps.

This is not the life Valjean thought he would have, but he does at least know how it came to be.

\---

When he woke the night after the barricades fell, he wasn't at home. 

The room in which he found himself was sparse. It was even more so than he would have chosen for himself, in fact: it housed very little except for one narrow bed in which Valjean was not lying, though he could see a person's shape beneath the sheet; he was stretched out flat with just a thin mattress between his back and the well-swept floorboards. Past the bed, against a starkly painted wall, stood a wardrobe and a large chest of drawers, both clearly aged and of moderate quality. On the wall above the bed was a crucifix. And by the shuttered window was a table and two chairs, one of which was occupied. 

From his low position, and with no chance of changing that position with the vicious ache of his gunshot leg, he couldn't see who was lying in the bed. He could see the man at the table, however, though his face was blanked out by the summer sunlight that streamed in through the shutters' slats. He didn't need to see the features of that face to know to whom it belonged, though; he would have known the man anywhere, under any condition. He felt as though he'd known him all his life, or else that their two lives were so entwined that they were one.

"Javert," he said, his voice thin and dry almost to the point of cracking. He watched Javert's head turn toward him, though he didn't say a word. And then, far from of his own accord, Valjean closed his eyes again. Again, he slept.

When he woke next, he understood a little more about the situation: the coat of Javert's police uniform was hanging neatly from the wardrobe door, his baton was sitting on the table, and the man himself was bending over the bed. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his waistcoat rode up fractionally at the small of his back. He was no doctor, but it was clear he was undertaking some similar work.

"This is your room," Valjean said, and Javert made a noncommittal sound, disgruntled, underneath his breath, that nevertheless Valjean understood as a response in the affirmative. "Why am I here?"

Javert turned to him. There was blood on his hands that was not his own and he was holding a dressing that Valjean felt sure from his expression's lack of evident pain that Javert did not require himself. He was also sure that he was wounded himself, and he recalled the shot, though he could not recall the pain of it; what he remembered was the young man in his arms and the stench of the sewer that he waded through, and the rat Thénardier he'd found within. He remembered Javert at the exit and how his heart had surged up in his breast, hoping his presence might mean Marius would live though he would be condemned himself. He remembered little else and now, well, the way he ached with every breath said perhaps a rib or two was broken, and the way his head reeled when he tried to move said broken ribs were not his only concern. 

"You asked for my help," Javert told him, sharply. "At the sewer gates. Two nights ago."

"And you gave it?" 

"Yes." 

" _Why_?"

That sharp look on Javert's face changed, though he turned away again toward the bed before Valjean could find the terms with which he might decipher that change. Before he could, he closed his eyes and slept his fitful sleep again, though he would not have wished to. 

"Cosette?" he asked when he woke with a start on the third day, ashamed down to his bones that he hadn't asked after her before. 

"The girl is safe," Javert replied. "With your friends in England."

It was nighttime then; a lamp was burning on the table at which Javert was sitting, with the light it cast through his half-full glass of wine making it appear a touch more bloody than it might otherwise have done. Valjean wondered for a moment if that was just a thought brought to mind by the scent of blood on the air, be that his or another's. He glanced at the bed, though turning his head took more effort than he might have liked, and then back at Javert by the window. 

"And the boy?" he asked. "Is _he_ safe?"

Javert clenched his jaw and for a second his gaze flickered up to the bed. "The boy will live," he said, which confirmed Valjean's suspicions as regarded the small room's third occupant. 

"He has a grandfather. M. Guillenormand, in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire."

"I'm aware. He woke for long enough to beg me not to take him there." 

"And you listened to him?" 

Javert's mouth twisted. The look on his face as he wrapped his hand around his glass was almost drunk, though Valjean wondered darkly if the man had ever been drunk in his life at all. 

"I listened," he said. "To him. To you..." He lifted his glass, raised it to him like a toast though they had precious little to toast to between them. Except, perhaps, that Cosette was safely out of Paris and that Marius Pontmercy was still alive. The foolish boy who had been so ready to die there on the barricade, just as all his friends had done, was still alive: he had been saved first by Valjean and then by Javert. In an odd way, Valjean found he couldn't help but admire him, or at least his fervour and tenacity.

On the fourth day, Javert helped him haltingly up to his feet, Valjean's arm about his shoulders and Javert's arm about his waist. He helped him to the table, helped him to sit, clenched his jaw as he helped him lower his trousers to tend the wound there at his thigh. Javert knelt on the floorboards like a man at prayer, jaw clenched tighter still, fingers unsure against his skin. Javert looked up at him, as if he had both lost his faith and found it, then he picked himself up and went to take his usual seat.

Valjean drank a little water, spluttered, rubbed a drop or two from his beard as Javert watched him like a wary, weary hawk. Marius was still asleep in Javert's bed, stirring every now and then as he burned with fever, and Valjean watched as Javert turned back the sheets to wash and dress his wound. He cradled his head as he helped him drink, then he washed his hands clean of blood again. 

A housekeeper brought food to them - enough for the two of them who were now conscious and a bowl of thin soup for Marius - though she eyed them with a certain caginess with which Valjean was not at all unfamiliar. They took turns attempting to coax Marius to eat a little, his eyes flickering open only long enough to take perhaps a quarter of the bowl before its contents were cold, and then they ate together, Valjean and Javert at the table by the window as the sun began to set outside. Valjean was wearing his own clothes, not those he'd worn at the barricade. He didn't ask how that had come to be, though the expression on Javert's face said he knew that the question lingered in his mind. 

When night fell, Valjean retired to the mattress on the floor beside the bed. Soon after, Javert took off his jacket, and his waistcoat, boots, trousers, and he lay down, too. When Valjean turned his head, he could see through underneath the bed to the other side; at the far side was another thin mattress exactly like the one upon which he was himself sleeping, and that was where Javert slept. When he turned his head, Javert turned his and looked at him. And then Javert turned out the lamp.

"If I return to my duties tomorrow, will you have left with him by nightfall?" Javert asked, the next day, as they sat together at the table.

Valjean met his gaze, steadily if not precisely easily. "Is that what you want, Javert?" he replied. "For the two of us to leave?"

Javert frowned. Javert's face twisted, contorted through a number of emotions Valjean felt unsure that he could name. 

"No," Javert said, though the word seemed to stick in his throat.

Slowly, careful of his injuries, Valjean shook his head. "Then I won't have left," he said, and though Javert looked away from him, he understood that he believed him. It wasn't the first time he'd been taken at his word, but it did feel meaningful nevertheless. It felt all the more meaningful for the one who had believed him.

The following day, Javert did indeed return to his work, setting the city back to rights following all that had so recently occurred. Valjean sat by the window and watched the street below, helped Marius to drink a little, mopped his brow and hoped whatever doctor Javert had persuaded to inspect him had had the truth of his condition. In the evening, Javert returned with food and drink. And later, they turned out the lamp and went to sleep. In the moonlight through the shutters, when he turned his head, he could see Javert. They watched each other quietly until they slept, and said nothing as they did so. 

A week passed in that way. Valjean slept almost as much as Marius did, dozing on the chair by the window while Javert was away or stretched out on the mattress at the side of the bed. Marius woke on the sixth day, for longer than a few minutes this time, long enough that he could eat more than a few spoonfuls of soup that Valjean fed him. It made him hope for his recovery. It made him hopeful that such recovery was possible.

A few more days passed, as Marius burned on with his fever. Another week passed, and Valjean helped Marius to sit up in the bed beneath the crucifix. Javert had told him what had happened, evidently; Marius, it seemed, knew that the two of them had saved his life that night. Javert had told him everything; Marius, it seemed, knew his name was Jean Valjean and not Fauchelevent, and the wonder of it was he didn't seem to mind at all, not really, not a fraction as much as Valjean did himself. And when, one night, once Javert had arrived home with a mismatched chair for Marius to sit on at the table, as the three of them sat there quietly together, Marius finally asked the question that Valjean knew he'd wanted so desperately to ask. 

"Why didn't he turn you in, Monsieur?" he said, and Valjean chuckled lowly. 

"You should ask him that," he replied. "I don't have that answer, though it's a question I have often asked myself." 

So, Marius turned his gaze onto Javert instead. "Inspector?" he said, and Javert's mouth took on a wry twist, but he didn't answer. He only stood, and he went to the wardrobe that sat across the room from them, and he reached up on top of it to pull down an old box. He set that box on the table, just in front of Marius. He lay one hand on top of it, patted it soundly, then withdrew.

"This might explain," he said, and then he sat himself back down again. 

"What is it?"

"Open it. You'll see." 

So Marius opened the box. And inside, Valjean saw something familiar, something he hadn't expected that he'd see again: inside the box were bundles of letters, addressed in his own hand to Inspector Javert. Marius read in silence in the lamplight while Valjean and Javert drank. 

The day that Fantine died back there in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Valjean had begged Javert to let him keep his promise and save Cosette. He'd begged him to let him go to Montfermeil and find her; he'd _begged_ him, and seen the twist of anguish on Javert's face as he'd done so. He hadn't expected him to say yes, and that wasn't what he did; he'd told him he would go there with him and if he tried to run he would spend the rest of his life in chains. Valjean had understood the terms, and had accepted them.

"Surely you can see she can't stay here," Valjean had said, by the door to the Thénardiers' inn, as he'd stood there with Cosette's small hand in his. 

He'd watched Javert's mouth twist in that same way, with that same anguish. "Yes," he'd said, "I see that," as if the words were thorns that scraped inside his throat.

"Will you care for her, then?" he'd asked. And Javert had stared at him there, his eyes hard, frowning. He'd expected to find himself back in chains again, now that he'd confessed his identity and M. Madeleine could no longer return to Montreuil-sur-Mer, and all that he could hope was that Cosette would find a place in a convent school, or perhaps Javert might find it in himself to raise her as his daughter. He only hoped that he could keep his promise to Fantine, so to Cosette. 

"Take her and go," Javert had said instead. "But you will write to me, Valjean. I will know your whereabouts. You will tell me every detail of your life. Do not think that I am giving you your freedom; I will watch you. This is your parole." 

Valjean had taken Cosette away that night, from Montfermeil to Paris. He'd evaded a lacklustre manhunt that had proceeded without the leadership of Inspector Javert and found himself a new name, and a new life, as Ultime Fauchelevent with his daughter Cosette. Each week, he'd sat down to write a letter that he addressed directly to Javert. Each day, he expected Javert's face at his door and the chains to close again, his letters having proven insufficient to sustain Javert's forbearance toward him. But years had passed in silence, years wherein the only word he'd received from the inspector was a neatly printed note to announce his change of address from Montreuil to Paris, and then nothing more. 

Now, those letters he'd sent - those _years_ of his letters - sat before him on the table, tucked away neatly in this unassuming box. Nine years of weekly letters, wherein he had detailed the daily lives both of himself and of Cosette. Nine years of their comings and goings, expenditures, charities, weeks when Cosette lay ill in bed, things she had learned within the convent school. The story of his trip to Digne was there, and the story of first arrest, told not for sympathy but that Javert might know that from him he concealed nothing. The story of his time in Montreuil-sur-Mer was present, also - the years before Javert had arrived there and the years that had followed, and his decision to redeem the man they had so readily arrested in his place. Javert had received those letters. Javert had read them, and he'd kept them, neatly, bound in ribbons by the year of their receipt. And now Marius Pontmercy was reading them. 

He read for hours. He read in the dying sunlight and then by the lamp that Javert placed on the table and while Valjean read his Bible, and Javert wrote his reports, Marius read those letter. Every now and then he glanced up, at one of them or at the other, only to return to his reading once again. When he was too tired to continue, Valjean helped him back to bed and Javert pulled a chair up to the bedside and he read to him, putting Valjean's actions into his own crisp, clear voice. 

"Did you never pay M. Valjean a visit, Inspector?" Marius asked. 

"I came as far as the gate," Javert replied. "No further."

"Why stop there?"

As Valjean watched, Javert smiled wryly. He folded the letter he was holding. He rose from the chair by the bed. 

"Because I knew I had no reason to," he replied, and then he looked over at Valjean. He walked around the bed, toward the table. He returned the letter to the box. And as he stood there, lingering by Valjean's side, as Marius' eyes drifted closed in the bed, Javert rested one hand on Valjean's shoulder. He squeezed, and Valjean's chest felt tight, as if his heart were grown too large to be contained within. And, when they retired to their mattresses at Marius' bedsides, when Valjean turned his head and peered under the bed, Javert was watching him. Javert's eyes were on him when he pushed one hand down between his thighs; perhaps there was a sheet obscuring a clear view, but he could tell what it was Javert was doing. He blushed, but he didn't look away.

All in all, Marius was there in that room for just over a month before sense won out and they returned him to his grandfather's house. Javert, proper as ever, had informed M. Gillenormand that his grandson was alive and being cared for and he thanked the two of them once they had deposited Marius into his bed and said a brief goodbye. Valjean remembers leaving the house and standing there in the street beside Javert; Valjean was leaning on a cane in clothes Javert had fetched from his home and Javert was in his uniform, as if he owned no other clothes at all, and Valjean had seen precious little to disprove that notion. 

Valjean remembers the stiff walk back to the Rue Plumet, the two of them together, quiet in the noisy streets. His leg ached, and he supposed that it would for some time; even now, almost two years on from the day that it happened, his thigh still aches sometimes, and he supposes now that it always will. He remembers letting himself in through the gate in the Rue de Babylone, and how empty the place seemed without Cosette there. He remembers looking back at Javert standing in the street outside, frowning, the toes of his boots almost directly at the line where the property of Ultime Fauchelevent began. He remembers holding out one hand to him in welcome. He remembers saying, "Will you come in, Javert?"

That day, he didn't. He made a consternated face and he walked away and he left Valjean alone, and that night, in his own bed for the first time in close on to five weeks, mid-July when the heat was quite close to unbearable, Valjean lay awake and wished for the mattress there on Javert's bare floorboards, no matter how his back might have protested so many nights of lying there. He lay awake in bed, eyes closed up tight, screwed shut, with one hand straying down between his thighs and Javert's face inside his head. And, in the morning, he sat down at his desk to write another letter.

It was two weeks later when he visited Marius at his grandfather's house and met Javert outside at the door. He remembers how Javert looked at him - wary, but perhaps a little eager. He remembers entering the house and being shown into the sitting room. Marius was there, looking pale through greatly improved in general. They took him to the street where his friends had died and Valjean shored him up, one arm about his waist, as Javert watched him; they were all remembering that day, he supposed, though while Marius recalled the faces of his friends, they two thought back to when Javert had come there to the barricade and found himself their prisoner. Valjean supposed that they though back to how the two of them had met for the first time in nine years.

"I don't want to go home just yet, Monsieur, Inspector," Marius said. "Will you take me somewhere else?"

And so Valjean took him to the Rue Plumet, took the walk at his pace and let the ache in his thigh remind him of that night. He took him inside, to the small table in his room, and once they'd drunk together, the three of them, just one glass of wine from a bottle that he fetched from in the cellar, that was when Marius rose, and he stumbled, and then pressed his lips against Valjean's almost like an accident. 

"You saved my life, Monsieur," he said, a little breathlessly, as Valjean's heart beat faster. 

"You don't owe me any debt," Valjean replied. "The inspector saved us both." 

"And I intend to thank him, too." He glanced between the two of them. "Messieurs, please don't think that I don't know what the two of you did at night, while I was in bed. Please don't think I didn't hear you, and wish that I was well enough to do the same." 

It was the following week when Marius made his first trip to the house alone; Javert was already there, having escorted Valjean and Cosette from the coast back to Paris. And though Marius and Cosette exchanged a few polite pleasantries, Valjean noted that the spark he might have expected to kindle there between the two of them failed to ignite. It was behind closed doors, his own closed door, in his small room, that Marius lit up; he wound his arms around Valjean's neck and pulled him down into a rather ardent kiss. Guiltily, he found that he was powerless to deny him.

It was the week after that when Marius made his second trip, this time escorted there by Javert. The three of them sat together, shared one cup of wine together, and then Marius took off his coat, took off his waistcoat and his shirt, and showed them both the angry scar still healing at his shoulder. Valjean remembers touching it, just lightly, with his fingertips. He remembers leaning in to press his mouth still hesitantly against it, and the way that Marius' elegant fingers wound into his hair, and the pang of guilt he felt to know exactly what it was he wanted to do next. 

The week after that, he returned again; Marius took off his clothes entirely, nervously, and slipped naked into Valjean's bed. And that's precisely where he is now. 

\---

Seven months ago, Javert gave up his rented room and moved into the room across the corridor from Valjean's own. He pays rent there, too, to satisfy his own stubborn sense of pride and feel he does his part, and the sum he pays is far more for the street in which the room finds its location than for the sparseness of the furnishings. Javert chose them himself; while Valjean has his thick Persian rug on the ground to keep his feet warm in the winter, Javert is content with his bare boards, but there are more similarities between their rooms than there are differences. There are, perhaps, more similarities between the two of them than there are differences, too, though he hesitates to say as much. 

Some nights, when Marius arrives, they go to Javert's room instead of Valjean's; tonight, though, they're in his. Marius lies naked on the bed, stretched out, his movements languid, and the two of them have arranged themselves about him like their respective ages might frame his youth somehow and show it off to its advantage. Valjean feels the guilt of that acutely: Marius is young enough to be his grandson, after all. But the time for his objections passed some time ago, nearly years ago, and so he says nothing about it. He only presses his mouth to the now fading scar at Marius' collarbone and thanks God for the fact that he lived. 

Javert is still an inspector with the Paris police. He keeps strange hours and sometimes returns at night past the time when Valjean has taken to his bed to sleep. Marius has returned to his study of the law, and Valjean expects he will take up the profession once his studies are completed. Valjean himself continues life as he has for these past nine years: he walks with Cosette, and he gives money to the poor, and he comes home to the Rue Plumet. But at night, sometimes, these days more often than not, he's not alone there. 

That first night, Marius didn't seem to know what he was asking for, and so all that happened between the three of them was Javert's hand around Marius' erection and Valjean's mouth at Marius' jaw, at his neck, his lips. The next time, Valjean pressed his cock between Marius' bare thighs and rubbed there, the tip nudging up behind his balls, until he groaned and came on his bedsheets that he'd need to wash; he lay back after and he watched Javert run his fingers through his come, rub them between Marius' cheeks, and make him gasp as he pressed them inside. He remembers how his head reeled with the image.

Now, they know each other well. When Valjean turns onto his back to relieve the stress on his still aching thigh, Marius straddles his hips. When Javert kneels behind him, when Javert's hands settle at his waist and his mouth dips down to Marius' shoulder, when one hand moves up to rest over the scar there at his collarbone, the action is almost expected and definitely far from unwelcome. There's oil by the bed that Javert fetches, and Valjean has watched this on enough occasions now to know precisely how it looks when Javert's slick fingers rub against the rim of Marius' hole. He's watching his face instead, and how his lips part and his eyelids close, and how his cock begins to flush and stiffen. He shouldn't be here with the two of them, men twice his age, but Valjean supposes that he understands: they three are the ones who lived to the far side of the barricade and understand what happened there that day. They three are the ones who saved each other, and Valjean feels the truth of it: that Marius has saved the two of them fully as much as they saved him. 

His hands wander Marius' thighs as he watches him press back against Javert's fingers. He's never asked where Javert learned this, not because he isn't curious but because Javert prefers to keep things to himself in much the same way he does. Sometimes he still writes letters to him, and leaves them sealed with wax in the box where notices are posted, so that when he returns home from the Prefecture of Police, he checks to see what news might have come and finds news from Valjean. Sometimes he writes as if the Inspector and Javert are two different men. Sometimes he addresses him as the man who wanted his arrest back in Montreuil and tells him tales of the man he calls J, who sometimes shares his bed on a cold night when their fires aren't lit, and who makes him feel like he might be an honest man. He hopes he is.

Marius moans. Valjean feels Javert's fingers wrap around his cock and stroke just to confirm he's hard and then he guides him up to press the tip to Marius' hole. Valjean's breath catches and he might feel a strange temptation to say that he's too old for this, but he doesn't feel it now. What he feels is the thrill inside him when Marius presses down and takes him in, as he's done so many times before now. What he feels is the thrill inside him when Javert's fingers rub there, where he's pushed up inside Marius. He rubs his own cock there, too, against Marius' rim and the base of Valjean's erection, slick with oil and almost desperate. Then Javert wraps one hand around Marius' cock and Valjean feels Marius clench tight around him. 

It's Marius that finishes first, making a mess of Valjean's bare chest as he bucks into Javert's hand. Javert next, whose strangled groan makes Valjean's chest feel tight inside. Valjean last, still pushed up deep inside Marius, but he knows from experience that he won't mind. And then, slowly, the three of them extricate themselves from one another; Javert pulls back and Marius lets Valjean slip out from in him, and the two of them rearrange themselves around him in the bed that at most other times would seem like an extravagance of size. Perhaps they know his thigh is aching. Perhaps they have decided it's his bed and so he can stay precisely where he is. There is no discussion; Javert pulls up the blanket and Marius turns out the lamp and the mess they've made of one another will just have to wait until the morning. Valjean, aching as he is, finds he doesn't mind; Valjean, aching as he is, smiles in the dark as Javert's warm hand finds his scar, and that warmth begins to help the ache. 

Two years have passed since that June day on the barricade, when he went there to save Marius' life and almost lost his own in the process of it. Two years have passed and all of them will carry the scars of that day with them for the rest of their lives: Marius and Valjean will do so physically, but he understands they all bear the weight of that experience. These days, however, they bear that weight together.

Marius does not live in the Rue Plumet, but he comes and goes there as he pleases. 

Tonight, it pleases Valjean that he chooses to stay.


End file.
